


this moment right now

by jestbee



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Dreams, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, fluffiest fluff, phandomxmasficxchange, xmas fic exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jestbee/pseuds/jestbee
Summary: Phil never dreams in present tense. Dan doesn’t dream in any tense. But somehow, this moment right now, is the best one yet.





	this moment right now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkpixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkpixel/gifts).



> written for the @phandomxmasficxchange - for @vivianadichiara who sent in two wonderful prompts. I loved both so I kind of smushed them together to right this. Hope thats okay! 
> 
> I realised I hadn't put this on AO3 yet so I thought I would. You can find it on my [Tumblr](http://jestbee.tumblr.com) though.

Phil never dreams in present tense. He doesn’t dream of what he has, only of what he may lose, the shadowy inevitable loss and dread around the corner. He fears growing old, losing his family, Dan. Always Dan.

Sometimes it is the possibility of Dan. Because so much change has already happened that he wonders what is next. He has some idea, of course, but it still thrills him to imagine a wide array of different options. House. Kids. Travel. All of it is possible. All of it is wonderful.

But it’s the Past tense ones he loves the most. Memories of where he has been, things he has done, drawn close and comfortable, re-lived in vivid colour in the way only dreams can give him. Dan is in those too.

It’s a younger version of him, smaller and closed off, covering everything he’s keeping in by rambling about other things he can let out. He’s so conscious of everything, every limb, every word. Phil can see all of the tension in retrospect and wonders why he didn’t see it at the time. But Dan is more familiar now, etched into Phil’s very fabric so that when Dan gets self conscious these days it might as well be a thought in Phil’s own head.

He was small in himself, curved inwards, pointy shoulders always bent to protect himself from imagined onslaughts. When Phil dreams, this is who he sees. Shy and insecure, a Dan he knew once, a boy he held until the nightmares went away, complimented until he started to believe it and loved so hard it was impossible to ignore. So hard that Dan had no doubt at all about how Phil felt.

Tonight he dreams of Dan in a train station. Lost and nervous under the glow of an arrivals board, flickering yellow numbers rotating around with information but Phil can only see him. He’s got a backpack on one shoulder, the other strap dangling around his slim hips. He has bands around his wrist and hair in his eyes and Phil remembers him exactly. He does what he did then and crosses the vastness of the tiles floor to talk to him. Finally. In person.

The dream shifts and they’re in Phil’s bedroom. He’s still nervous, but his face is a little brighter and he’s able to make eye contact without hiding behind his fringe. There’s a flush on his cheeks from being knocked on his back and Phil thinks he’s beautiful. He knows what happens next, he doesn’t need to relive that one.

Phil’s imagination lets him view hundreds of these moments, perhaps thousands. One-by-one but also all at once. Memories and moments he thought he’s forgotten all thrown up to show a timid, hesitant Dan grow into someone vibrant and loud, unashamed and confident in his own skin. Phil feels a swell of pride as he wakes, the visions fading into nothing as he he opens his eyes and rolls over to try and find him in the pale morning light.

But the bed is empty, and Phil can hear the faint clatter of dishware in the kitchen. It’s just like any other morning, really, except the sudden needs to see him pulling low in Phil’s stomach.

Dan in the kitchen isn’t the old Dan. He knows that it isn’t, logically, but the sight of his swaying hips in black jersey boxer briefs, the oversized hoodie that once belonged to Phil hanging off his shoulders, and the sleep rumpled curls haphazard across his forehead, Phil could be forgiven for thinking he’s stumbled into one of his dreamscapes.

“Morning,” Dan says, nudging a cup of coffee across the counter towards him, “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Phil says, “nothing at all.”

He pads across the kitchen floor, bypassing the coffee for a moment and slipping his arms instead around Dan’s waist, pulling him in.

He dips his head to Dan’s shoulder and feels Dan’s own arms come up to bracket his shoulders and he breathes in the familiar scent of him.

He spends way too much time thinking about all the changes they’ve gone through, all the ones they will go through. He’s justly proud of everything, of the man Dan is now, and who he was and who he will be. He marvels at everything they’ve done together, what they’ve overcome, what they’ve built. But in the end, it’s just Dan, past, present, future, it doesn’t really matter. He’s still the same, still familiar and smelling of warm and fitting just perfectly against him.

“Are you okay?” Dan asks

“Yeah,” Phil nods into his collarbone, “just thinking about… all of it.”

Dan hums like he understands.

“You?”

Dan runs a hand down Phil’s spine and breaths into the mess of his hair. “Actually,” he says, “I’m just thinking of this moment right now.”

-

Dan doesn’t dream in any tense. It’s never really a coherent narrative, just terrifying images come to scare him, or else pleasant fantasies made up by his own imagination. Nothing rooted in anything real, nothing he can really ruminate over.

He wakes from thoughts of nothing special. His eyes focus in on the sight that greet him every morning but some reason, it’s different. He doesn’t know why, but Phil’s casual hand slung over his waist grazing his skin feels particularly pleasant this morning. He’s warm and comfortable and they fit so snugly up against each other that he hears himself sigh.

He doesn’t often take stock like this. Spend time just in the moment without the rush of everything else overwhelming him so it’s nice to find himself focussed in on the little things. Phil’s pink lips are parted and he’s drooling slightly on his pillow, which should be disgusting but after eight years is just kind of endearing. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jaw and top lip that Dan can’t help but lean forward and rub the tip of his nose into. It’s rough, scratchy, such a contrast to the soft skin of Phil everywhere else. He likes it.

He spends a few minutes just waiting in it, this tiny suspended patch of moments he’d woken up to. Phil isn’t stirring, he’s so still and silent against the sheets that Dan could almost believe he’s actual frozen in time. It is only the soft susserent rise and fall of Phil’s breathing that lets him know that outside of this bed, time is still marching on, the world is still spinning. For now though, in this house, it can be static for a little while longer.

Before he can fall back to sleep, he forces himself up and out of the sheets. He can’t stay here, he can’t be self indulgent, if only because the bubble will pop eventually and it would be nice to keep it for a little bit. He’ll get up, make them both breakfast and perhaps when Phil gets up they can shirk their responsibilities for the day.

He’s got the coffee in their mugs, and he’s just about to turn on the hob when Phil shuffles into the kitchen. His phone is plugged in to the speaker in the corner and there’s soft, low music playing that he’s swaying his hips to.

“Morning,” he says, sliding the coffee cup across the counter.

He notices then, the way Phil’s eyes don’t leave him, the way he looks like there’s alot going on in his head. He’s been dreaming again. Phil is always dreaming.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Phil says, in a way that makes it sound as if he’s trying very hard to make it seem like that’s the case. “Nothing at all.”

He comes closer then, and Dan is mostly ready for it when Phil scoops him up into his arms and nuzzles into the fabric of his jumper. His nose is cold against his clavicle but he can’t bring himself to mind.

He feels Phil’s hot breath against his skin and he shiver’s slightly.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah…I’m just thinking about it all.”

Dan hums, as he suspected. He knows that Phil worries about the future, he imagines what will happen when his family gets old, if he loses his parents. He worries about Dan too, about whether they’re doing the right thing. Sometimes he worries about the past a bit as well, spends too long thinking about decisions they’ve made an whether they were the right ones.

Dan wants to bring him back to now, to this moment.

“You?”

The question surprises him, because Dan doesn’t think about that stuff.

He’s been guilty of getting existential, of thinking there isn’t enough time left to do everything he needs to, or of thinking that this moment now isn’t big enough to have an impact of everything compared to the vastness of the universe. But he isn’t guilty of ruminating on what will happen too far into the future, he tries not to think of it at all because in his experience, things you plan for your future don’t always end up working out.

What you know about yourself could turn out to be completely wrong.

You could fall in love with your best friend, you could decide not to study law, you could share more on the internet that you originally intended. You could admit to things without outright saying them. You could shift boundaries so far and so much faster than you intended but find you’re not scared, not at all.

“Actually,” he says, “I’m just thinking of this moment right now.”

Phil leans back and away, looking right in to Dan’s eyes. “What about it?”

“I dunno,” Dan says, pulling Phil in closer with a warm hand on the back of his neck, “I think it’s a pretty good one, don’t you?”

Their lips brush together for a moment, Da’s framing Phil’s bottom lip, tongue swiping only just a little across it. A small sigh escapes Phil’s mouth as they part.

“Yeah,” he says, “This moment is pretty damn good.”


End file.
